桌上放着一本薄薄的小册子,淡褐色的封面,三两只轻盈的飞鸟在云端自由地飞翔。金黄色的阳光照射着森林,一位老者安祥地坐在高背椅上,白发披肩,深邃的目光凝视远方。他就是泰戈尔,也是我心中飞鸟的精魂:自由而执着。他所写的每一个文字都化为飞鸟,飞向高空,向着太阳展示最赤诚洁白的人性。 There was a thin booklet on the table, a light brown cover, and thirty-two light flying birds flying freely in the clouds. The golden sun shone on the forest, an old man sitting comfortably on a high chair, with white hair and deep eyes staring into the distance. He is Tagore, also the soul of the birds in my heart: free and persistent. Every word he wrote turned into a flying bird, flying high above the sky, showing the most sincere and white humanity to the sun.